A Question of Fate
by JudeClee
Summary: Oliver Thredson had never believed in fate, but that was before he met Lana Winters.
1. Chapter 1

A Question of Fate

Oliver Threadson had always been a rational man.

That might strike some as an odd statement, given that the man's greatest pleasure was to remove the still-living flesh from a woman and feel it against his own, but nevertheless it was true. He modeled his practice off of behaviorists like B.F. Skinner rather than the fanciful approaches of Freudian psychoanalysts. He silently (and not so silently) scoffed at Sister Jude and her ilk. If someone had asked him six months ago if he believed in fate, he would have laughed.

But six months ago, he hadn't met Lana Winters.

If that wasn't fate, than what else could it be? _She_ was the one who approached _him_! He had volunteered to help prepare the common room for movie night, even though it had nothing to do with Kit Walker's case. It had all been for Lana; for the chance of seeing her in her new environment.

Imagine his surprise to find his adored Lana, the object of months of obsession, stuck with him at the pisshole that was Briarcliff. To be fair, he wasn't "stuck"; he was but a kindly young psychiatrist working with an infamous patient, free to go as he like. He had been following Lana through all of September and most of October, watching her as she made her way about town, to and from work. It was to his shocked dismay that he found their happy little routine disrupted, that Lana's alleged homosexuality led to her imprisonment.

He nearly dropped his cigarette when she approached him in the common room.

"Dr. Threadson?" she said timidly. "I've been watching you."

He stood there, gaping like an idiot. It was almost too perfect. This entire time, he'd been infatuated with her but she'd been none the wiser. Now he knew that she felt the same inexplicable pull.

She looked so different. Her hair was lank and unwashed, the auburn tangles falling sloppily around her face and neck. She was wearing the drab blue of Briarcliff rather than the fashionable dresses she normally loved. Even her demeanor was different. She had been passionate and unabashed when talking to her fellow reporter, but she was reserved, even shy, when she addressed him. He supposed it was understandable, after having been forced to undergo electroshock therapy (he wanted to throttle Sister Jude for that one).

But she was still beautiful. Yes, she certainly was.

He knew it was fate the night that they escaped together. Now, they were no longer doctor and patient, but coconspirators executing their plan.

"That was it?" Lana said as they shuffled over to the car, his overcoat draped over her thin frame.

"We're not out yet," he replied. His caution was justified as Frank appeared only a moment later.

His mind was racing through panicked scenarios, convinced that this was the end, but he kept a calm front as he spoke to Frank. Lana was sitting in the car. If Frank were to step forward, shift his position, or offer to help with the boxes, than he could easily spot her. He would lose his license, his practice, and his one last shot at experiencing true, maternal love.

But Frank hadn't seen. He took Oliver's rather cryptic words at face value and left.

That close call turned his thoughts back to this question of fate. Frank should have caught them, but he hadn't; surely that counted for something. He felt light with the reassurance that all of his past actions—murdering Wendy Peyser, taking Lana's furniture, and so on—were justified. Everything had been leading up to this moment.

"That was close," he said as he ducked into the car, closing the door behind him with more force than was perhaps necessary.

"God, I was convinced he'd see me," she said, giving a nervous little smile, her lips never parting. "Especially with my luck…"

He had to smile at that. "I think your luck's starting to change."

Both of theirs was.

He turned on the ignition and drove forward without checking to see if Frank had lingered near the entrance. There was still a chance that Frank could come over again, determined to persuade him further. The chance was slight, but even a slight risk had to be taken seriously. He took pride in his foresight, in his willingness to consider all risks and consequences. If he hadn't, why, he might be the one in the straitjacket instead of poor, gullible Mr. Walker.

Lana didn't say anything as they drove away. Her large brown eyes were focused on the window, staring out at the grand old building that had been her prison for the past month. Oliver doubted that she could actually see anything, but she stared out all the same.

"Would you like me to turn on the radio?" he asked.

"Hm?" Her eyes flickered towards him, but he could tell her mind wasn't fully there. "If you like."

"My house isn't far," he told her. "It should only take ten, maybe fifteen minutes. I have a spare bedroom set up for you, but I'm afraid I'm not used to having guests over. I hope you'll find it comfortable."

"I'm sure it's fine," she said politely.

"I know this is happening so fast," he said, feeling the inexplicable need to keep a friendly conversation going. "It's a lot to take in."

For the first time all night, she seemed fully apart of the conversation.

"It's still hard to believe this is real. I dreamed of escaping for so long, but after a while…would you mind if I rolled down the window? It's been a while since I felt a breeze."

"Of course." He pictured the dark corridors, the common room crowded with madness, the barred windows that kept out the rest of the world. It made him angry, every time, to remember Lana in that hellhole.

He felt a thrill of nervous excitement as they approached his house, and he could tell that Lana felt it too. Everything in his life had been leading up to this moment, and Lana's too, even if she didn't know it yet.

He had put a lot of thought into how he would reveal the truth to her. There was the trapdoor, if she should stumble upon his work room. He had it installed nearly a year ago, for purely practical reasons. Sometimes he had excess material in his workroom (blood, bits of bone, leathery skin that was no longer pliable) that needed a quick disposal, so the trapdoor sent them straight to the basement. Yes, the trapdoor could work…

But what were the chances that she would just happen to stand right over it? Better to use drugs. He could slip enough into her wine, making her feel warm and sleepy until she finally passed out.

Of course, there was the high probability that she would notice his décor. He had debated hiding it for Lana's visit, at least initially, but decided against it. He wanted to see if she'd noticed it, if she was really as good a journalist as both of them believed. But then, people had a habit of seeing what they wanted to see. Look at Kit Walker, and even Lana herself, who saw nothing but an idealistic young psychiatrist who was willing to risk his career for their sake. He would have to wait and see.

But he was soon to learn that even in his own home, there were still potential dangers.

His heart seized up when he saw her by the phone. His first, irrational thought was that she had _betrayed_ him. His fingers slammed down on the phone, ending the call.

"No calls," he said, forcing calm into his voice.

But Lana had only wanted to call some friend or another. She hadn't wanted to betray him at all. He wanted to laugh—it was foolish, really, to jump to conclusions so quickly. He would have to calm down, before his nerves got the best of him, before he said something he would regret.

"I knew you were the person to tell my story," he said, holding out the glass of wine.

She looked curious. "_Your_ story?"

There it was again. He wanted to smack himself for his carelessness. This time, he couldn't hide the expression on his face, couldn't put on his carefully crafted mask.

Lana, however, didn't linger on his slip. She smiled and toasted and played the part of the perfect guest.

That was, until he turned the lamp on. He saw the range of emotions come across her face: confusion, then horror, then fear. He was her make a noble effort to keep her composure, to hide her knewknowledge.

Something about it brought out a boyish, naughty giddiness in him. He couldn't let this go.

"Mint?" he asked, sliding over the skull-bowel. There it was again, the same fear and uncertainty lighting up her eyes. He wanted to laugh, to hug her, to caress that gorgeous skin of hers. Instead he stared at her, giving her an unwavering look.

She knew that he knew that she knew.

She made an excuse to use his bathroom, and he gladly gave her directions. All of the doors were locked except for the workroom. This was shaping up to be interesting.

He took off his glasses and let out a sigh.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I'm not sure how long this story will be or how long I'll continue it. It's going to be canon-based, and not necessarily in chronological order. American Horror Story: Asylum does not in any way belong to me.

This…wasn't supposed to happen.

Those were Oliver's thoughts at eleven o'clock on a Sunday night. He was standing in the shower, feeling the icy water rain down on his sweaty skin. He was standing completely still, not even moving his arms to wash himself.

What he was feeling, what was sitting heavily in his stomach and washing over him more powerfully than the water, was shame. The man in him denied it as fervently as he denied Kit Walker's accusations, but the psychiatrist in him knew that it was true. He was deeply, deeply ashamed of himself and his deplorable actions that might have ruined everything.

Oliver had always possessed more self-control than his peers, even when he was just a boy in the orphanage. His fellow orphans were often caned for touching themselves. He would watch as they cried out in their pain and humiliation, but he himself was never subjected to their punishment. Not that he never erred; he was human after all, but he was always more discrete about it. Then, when he was an adult, he never had time for women or relationships. He had to work his ass off to maintain his scholarships and earn enough money to put himself through college and med school. His classmates came from wealthy families and so could indulge in whatever frivolities they wished. They would mock him and sneer at him, but they never realized how spoiled they were, how much they had had handed to them.

Lana was his first. Well, his first if he didn't count Wendy (sometimes he did and sometimes he didn't. It had been an unusually long day). Lana was the first woman he'd felt any real connection with. Sure, there had been some bumps in the beginning, but he now saw that was his fault as much as hers; truth be told, they were both still figuring things out, still adjusting to their new roles.

Things had changed. He couldn't begin to describe the joy that he had felt in his last two days with her. He could talk to her and she would listen, never judging or criticizing like so many of the others. When he was upset, she comforted him, as any good mother would.

If he had to pinpoint the moment when the shift first occurred, he'd say that it was as he lay with his face pressed against Lana's chest, after he had finished suckling. He felt her chest rise and fall with each rapid breath, felt their shared tears and skin mingle against each other.

"I'm sorry, Mommy," he said thickly, into the nape of her neck.

"Don't be, baby," she answered softly, "it's okay now."

He'd sat up then, searching for the key. Lana was lying before him, limbs chained down, night gown torn and exposing her near-naked body. He quickly unlocked her arms, then immediately fell back into her embrace. The stirrings rose up then, the desire that he was usually so diligent to suppress, more intensely than he ever felt before.

He remembered Lana stroking his hair, whispering again and again, "everything's going to be okay now."

He turned the shower off abruptly. He was unnerved by the sudden silence, but that was stupid of him. He was used to silence. Hell, he reveled in silence. Silence enveloped his house, unless he had the television turned up loud or could hear the screams of partially-skinned women. But this night the silence was nothing but a reminder of his inadequacies, of his weakness and his terrible mistake.

He needed to go to bed now. As hard as it was to imagine, he actually had some appointments scheduled for tomorrow.

His bedroom was hardly any different from his living room. It had the same brown coloring, the same catalog furniture, the same meticulous neatness. There was even a skin-shade lamp, though this one was smaller. He crawled into his bed wearing nothing but his underwear and beater, pulled the blankets over his body, and turned to the side.

Sleep wouldn't come.

_Lana didn't do it because she wanted to_, the psychiatrist in him whispered. _She did it because she didn't want to hurt your feelings._

This realization caused the shame to crash over him again, along with another, equally potent, feeling—perhaps guilt?

_She hadn't wanted you, you idiot, _he told himself bitterly. _She was supposed to be your mother, not your lover._

Oliver kicked the covers off angrily, groping around for the light switch. As soon as the lights were on, he lit a cigarette.

God, he had ruined everything, hadn't he? Things had been _perfect._ He had a mother, for the first time in his life. How could he have thrown all of that away?

Against his will, his mind went back to Lana's face. The look on her face wasn't pleasure or happiness, but more akin to endurance. It hadn't registered with him during the act itself—he was too focused on his own pleasure to notice what was going on around him—but now that his head was clear he saw it as it had been.

Of course, Lana would submit to him. Of course. She was willing to do whatever he wanted. She probably thought it would make him happy, and what good mother wouldn't put her child's happiness above all else?

He put his hands roughly to the sides of his head, gripping his fingers through his hair. How could he face her again? What was he supposed to do, waltz back down the basement all bright and chipper and go, "oh, hey, Mommy, how are you?" as if nothing happened! Or maybe he could snuggle up in bed and promise to be a good boy from now on?

The very thought embarrassed him so much that he blushed. He must disgust her now. She had seen him at his basest form, his weakest moment. He let out a low groan. How could he ever face her again? She must hate him now—no, no, she wouldn't _hate_ him, surely not, but she must feel disappointed at the very least.

And then a strange sobriety passed over him. It had been a mistake to bring her here in the first place. He saw that now. He had been behaving as if he had expected Lana to stay chained up in the basement until one or both of them died. He had been so preoccupied with the mechanics of whisking Lana from the asylum and setting up her new space that he hadn't fathomed the long term. Now, the reality of the situation came creeping back in.

He didn't relish the thought of ending Lana's life. There was a time when, in his anger and his hurt, he had been prepared to treat her as he treated the other women, but that was before. Nonetheless, he couldn't very well let her live. She was loyal, yes, but…it was still too great a risk.

It had to be quick and painless for the both of them. Slitting her throat would work—his medical proficiency would ensure that he didn't botch the job—but it would certainly be messy. There was also strangulation, but that was slower, and he didn't think he could stomach the sight of her gorgeous fair skin turning blue.

He let out a sigh, then started to get dressed, all thoughts of sleep forgotten. It was best to do it now, before he lost the courage. He needed to make the decision and make it now. Or, wait; as a matter of fact, he didn't. He would let Lana decide. He couldn't think of a better way to show his respect and devotion then by entrusting Lana to make what was arguably one of the most important decisions of her life. Yes, it was fitting this way. He felt the burden lift off of his shoulders.

He lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply.


End file.
